


Exit Strategy

by ZenithMaguire



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alcoholism, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Feelings, Harold's tummy is the temple of John's lust, Jealousy, M/M, PTSD, Pining, Possessiveness, Suicide, people who refuse to communicate until the worst possible times, stalkerliness even beyond canon levels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-27 14:39:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16221182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZenithMaguire/pseuds/ZenithMaguire
Summary: Reese had spent so long worrying about losing Finch, he hadn't expected simply being left behind.





	1. Chapter 1

He jogged up the stairs with a cup in each hand, feeling like he'd just gotten back from vacation. Being caught and tied up in a damp storeroom for a night hadn't done him any real harm beyond the bump on his head and a few scrapes to his wrists, and the sound of Finch's voice when he'd called to say he'd escaped (and told him where Carter could find the body) had made everything just peachy. He was safe, Harold was safe, Harold was gratifyingly relieved to the point of sounding shaky, and once home John had slept like a babe in arms. There was something satisfying in waking up, getting showered and shaved and heading off fresh and spruce to pick up coffee and Finch's tea on the way, prepared to reappear as well-groomed and nonchalant as if he'd spent all weekend sitting in the park. 

When he found Finch's chair empty he'd automatically set the cups down, expecting to hear him walk out of the bathroom or some other corner of the old building. It took him a second to register the absence of a coat on the stand, and the envelope placed where Finch would normally sit. 

It was addressed to Mr Reese, in an even, sloped hand. The first time John had seen Finch's handwriting he'd imagined him at school, a bright little blue-eyed boy who sat at the front of the class and turned in every piece of homework on time and immaculate. It had made him smile. 

Now he was feeling a kind of chill, and a stiffness that made it hard to stretch out his arm and take the note. It was as if opening it would finalise some reality that he could still escape if he retraced his steps, left the room as he'd found it. He made himself rip it open and read it. It was so short. All this time, and apparently so little to be said. He ripped the paper in two and balled it up, throwing it at Harold's chair. Then he went to the cabinet, yanking open the drawers. The files were gone. There was a little pink cloth on the desk that Harold cleaned his glasses with. John picked it up and stared around the room, crumpling the soft scrap in his hand. He left before he gave in to the temptation to throw the desk over, smash the chair. The two cups stood where he'd left them, forgotten and cooling in the empty room. 

\--

He was doing ok, all told. Finch hadn't been stingy with severance pay, which meant John was currently drinking single malt on a very comfortable sofa, watching a western he couldn't name but was sure he'd seen before. It didn't matter, and he wasn't really watching anyway. When he'd stayed in real fleapit apartments there was always plenty of noise coming through the walls, but this place was respectable enough to be too silent without the tv on. He poured another drink. 

He'd started off calling all of Finch's phones, getting a robotic voice message saying each line had been disconnected. He still swore and pleaded and yelled into every damn one just in case it was recording. He'd harassed Fusco and wheedled Carter. She'd shown a flicker of interest at the change in his appearance: he'd been running a lot at that point, working off frustration at the gym. His old suits were back at the loft and would be getting too loose in the waist anyway. He was becoming leaner, with his hair grown out just a little and a beard trimmed short, dressed in presentable but nondescript street clothes. He'd almost asked Carter out for dinner before realising how little he'd have to say about his life now. Somehow he didn't think she'd give him many appreciative looks if he started crying into his linguine. Fusco had seen right through him from the get go, punched his arm and called him 'big guy' like he was John's stepdad or something. Things got awkwardly quiet when they each admitted they'd heard nothing from Finch, and John left. That night he drank till he vomited. 

Since then he'd settled into a kind of somnambulism, tracking every possible lead on Finch in the day and drinking at night, but not too much, not enough to stop him getting up in the morning and starting again. He'd gone almost absurdly old school, filling notebooks with every snippet of information he could remember about Finch, even the ones he'd always thought were red herrings. At the time he'd almost found them endearing, little dodges in the game they were playing together. But since Harold had picked up his pieces from the board and gone he called them what they were: lies, no matter what Finch had said in the beginning. There were reasons not to use his laptop to store information, since he was used to seeing every internet-enabled device as pretty much a hotline straight to Finch, but mostly it was just being reminded. He might tell himself he didn't want his old boss hacking him, but even worse was the feeling that he was sending his desperation out into the ether and being ignored. 

\--

Harold was lying on the library floor. He was getting cold. 

John had seen Finch in the street, and realised he was headed for the library. In the end he decided to just walk in the way he always had. He was standing in front of the desk; he put Harold's tea down next to him, waited, demanded explanations. Nothing. Finch just carried on working at his computer, wouldn't even look at him. The final straw was when he reached out, lifted the full cup, and silently dropped it in the trash. John was moving before he realised it, and felt the snap as they went down struggling. Harold's neck lay at an odd angle, and his eyes were open, gazing frozen at the ceiling. John finally had all of Finch, full access, every inch of him. He could go through his pockets and check him for birthmarks, moles, tattoos, webbed feet or extra nipples or who knew what. If he hadn't done this so many times maybe he'd be weeping, or throwing up at least, but to him a corpse was an untidy pile of identifying features, so he just knelt there, not looking at the open eyes. Eventually he drew his gun, not looking at that either, but he felt the metal in his mouth, tasted it. 

He woke up freezing cold and shaking. He was growing used to the dreams, hunting Harold through the streets or the stacks, shoving him up against a wall, listening to him beg or sneer or threaten. Sometimes he kissed him, sometimes he punched him bloody. Once dream-Harold had shoved him to his knees, grabbed him by the hair, got his cock out and rammed it into John's salivating mouth, viciously rough. The action was somehow less incongruous than Finch's tidy little voice calling him a slut and a whore while John grunted in satisfied agreement and sucked him in. He'd been about to come down John's throat when John woke up. He'd jerked off, rough with himself but joylessly now, and afterwards he didn't quite cry.


	2. Chapter 2

When he finally saw Finch, he thought he was hallucinating. He'd given up the phone calls, the visits to Crane's and Wren's and Partridge's offices. He had been told Harold was out of the country, on a business trip, some variation on away indefinitely. John had been dividing most of his time between watching safe houses and the library, altering his rounds to cover them all at different times and days of the week. Other than the firearms he stripped and cleaned regularly he was careful not to carry anything he'd owned before he was fired, used rental cars with new fake id cards. His old aliases were still up and running, each with very healthy bank balances thanks to Finch's parting gifts. He'd withdrawn a large amount in the first week, barely making a dent, and hadn't needed to touch them again. Apart from liquor and a few pieces of surveillance gear he hadn't had many expenses, just the bland apartment he rented, the cars he sat in all day, and the pizza he picked at in front of the tv in the evenings. He'd lost his taste for Chinese food, it always brought back a memory of the way Harold held his chopsticks, gesticulating with them whenever he wanted to make a point. 

That day John had taken his regular patrol past Grace's home, reassuring himself she was still safe as much as looking for Finch. She'd walked past the window chatting animatedly on her phone, and he'd felt unbearably far away from everything, everyone. He wanted to knock on her door, ask her how she'd managed it, how to keep going. Sometimes she went out for the evening; he would imagine picking the locks once she'd left, looking for anything that might have been Harold's. Maybe she had an old photograph she wouldn't miss; it was a crazy risk, and wrong, and what good would it do? Her Harold was as lost as his. He decided to call it a day, headed towards his apartment. 

He was about halfway home when he spotted him turning a corner. The back was familiar, the walk, the rounded shoulders. The shape of his goddamned ears. John knew better than to yank him around by the arm; if he'd done that every time he thought he'd seen a phantom Finch he'd have either been arrested or committed by now. Instead he circled round in front, caught him face to face, and met his eyes. Neither of them moved. John remembered he had things to say, things he needed to say, but everything had stopped and his voice was gone in frustration and fury. Harold was staring up at him, terrified, his eyes amazingly round and blue and bright. John clutched his arm, waved down a cab and hauled him in. Finch didn't resist. 

\--

After John gave his address to the taxi driver they rode in silence. He still had a tight grip on Finch's arm, as if he might fling himself out into the traffic at any moment, or just dissolve into smoke if he broke the connection. He couldn't stand to look at him for long, glancing over to see his eyes still full of apprehension, still watching him. When they got out he marched them into the building, and as they stood side by side in the elevator he saw them together in the mirror. It felt like a sick joke, another nightmare, this scowling monster dragging some shit-scared little limping man around. It wasn't them, who they'd been together. Then again, wasn't he just the hired muscle, a killer mad at his ex-employer? This was nothing John wanted, but he couldn't stop. Finch was pulled into the apartment, pushed towards the sofa, and John stood over him for a moment before turning around. He had to say something. His jaw hurt from clenching tight. He got himself a drink, and placed one for Finch on the table. The concerned glance at the half-empty whisky bottle finally sparked him off. 

'Oh yeah, you're going to act worried now. Don't waste your breath. Not your business anymore. 'Giving me my privacy', isn't that what you called it?'

Finch had the good sense to take his glass instead of speaking. John forced his fists to uncurl and poured himself more scotch. 

'Thanks for the golden handshake, Harold. What do you think of the new place?'

Finch looked around the room as if he hadn't noticed it before. It was well furnished but left unadorned, unpersonalised. John had mostly filled it with guns, but they were out of sight. It was about as unlike the loft as possible: the ceilings were lower, the windows smallish and covered with light blinds, with blackout curtains. Instead of a wide, open space there was an adequate but compact living/kitchen area with a door to the bedroom. It could have been cosy, for someone else. 

'I wouldn't have bothered you at your apartment, if you'd wanted to stay. I still won't.'

'Yeah. Good to know.' There was no way John could have stayed there. How could Finch not understand that?

'Is there anything you need?'

'Anything I need? Are you serious?'

'I'm willing to go to any practicable lengths to ensure your comfort, Mr Reese. I did try to provide for that.'

'With money.'

'I wanted you to have as much freedom as possible.' Finch was still pale and a bit shaky, but he was holding his ground. John didn't know how to respond without making some pretty humiliating admissions about what it was he needed, or exactly how free he was; he changed tack. 

'You switched up your safe houses.'

'Not exactly. I have left some unoccupied for the time being.'

'There were more. More than I knew about.'

Finch looked like he wanted to say of course there were, you always knew that. He was cautious, though. 

'There are a number of properties, owned by shell companies, managed by other companies, leased under various pseudonyms-' he raised his hands in a little shrug. 

'And all the companies and all the pseudonyms are yours.'

'I'm charging myself some truly exorbitant rents. Not to mention the service charges.'

John refused to smile. Somehow he knew there was a small army of cleaners and maintenance staff out there with comprehensive health coverage and highly secure pension plans. Harold was thorough. 

'You knew I was looking for you.'

'I tried to make it very plain that there was no cause for undue alarm. I did receive your messages, but as you didn't say anything about being in any trouble...'

'Yeah. Much better to know you got rid of me on a whim.' That landed: Harold winced. 'You knew where I was.'

'I was sincere about giving you your privacy. I hadn't intended to trace you, but later I felt...well. I only knew you had moved here.' 

'How?' He didn't need to ask, but he wanted the admission. 

'You kept your phone. I saw the location was the same when you turned it on.' 

When I checked it over and over for weeks, and you just let me wait, John thought. It was currently wadded up in a wall cavity in a plastic bag with his earpiece and a tiny scrap of pink cloth. No need to mention that. 

'Well for some strange reason I thought you might actually contact me at some point, might even need my help. I wouldn't want to just leave you in the lurch, Harold.'

His voice was low and he was moving closer. Finch fidgeted a little. 

'I felt this would be safer for you.'

'A clean break.' John knew Harold would remember his own words as well as John remembered reading them. He wanted to see every syllable scorching Harold the way they had stung him. 

'Yes.' He had the decency to look ashamed. 

'How many 'libraries' are there?'

Finch looked confused at that. 

'I do own other disused properties.'

'And which one are you working out of now?'

'I'm. I've been. I'm operating on more of an ad hoc basis. I really don't wish to compromise your safety with unnecessary information if you've made a life for yourself.'

'What are you doing here?'

'You brought me...'

'Not buying the act, Harold.' John was looming over him now, forcing him to tilt back to look up at him. 'You knew where I was. You let me find you. You had this whole thing planned. What the fuck is this about?'

'Mr Reese,'

'Don't Mr Reese me. You know it's not my name. I'm sick of your fucking games, and your lies, and your smug little morality act. You think you know what's good for everybody, but what you really like is control. I'm not buying your routine, and I'm not staying in a little glass bowl for you to look at like you do Grace Hendricks. So here's one of your precious free choices for you: get out or I kick you out.'

'John,'

'GET OUT.'

\--

He started packing his bags straight away. He thought about leaving the old phone and the earpiece where they were, then decided to pull them out and smash them, then ended up checking them for the thousandth time (earpiece still painfully silent, phone showing no new messages.) He ended up putting the phone down to charge, getting another drink and sitting down on the sofa. 

Harold had left in silence, staggering hurriedly to the door before shutting it behind him. John stared at it, slumped next to the slight dip in the cushions where Harold had been. He put his empty glass down next to Harold's and wondered if that was finally it, the end of all of it. In effect, John Reese would cease to exist. He got up and fetched the bottle.


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't recall going to bed, but that was where he woke up, afternoon light warming the room. He was still kind of drunk, but he managed to get some coffee going and remembered the night before, or some of it. He was leaving. Harold had reappeared, he still didn't know why, or why any of this had happened, but he was getting out and forgetting all of it. No more waiting around, no more games of chess or hide and seek or whatever it was this had been. A clean break, and this time he was doing the breaking. Harold could stand on his street corner blowing a trumpet if he wanted; John was out of there. 

That was when he saw it. A message from Harold's old number. An address, a time, and 'Please. I'm sorry.' John felt like he'd been kneed in the gut. His heart sped up. He decided he wasn't going; let Harold see what it was like to be frozen out. He checked the time. He hoped to god he had some clean clothes. 

\--

It wasn't the showiest place, but it was well-appointed, attractive. The front door buzzed a moment after he rang the bell and he let himself in. There was an elevator to the top storey. He found himself staring at his reflection again, and admitted to himself that lean had been turning into gaunt over the last few weeks. He looked sallow and clammy and his heart was going like a hummingbird's. The doors parted and when he buzzed again at an apartment door Finch opened it, looking so absolutely himself that John couldn't help indulging in the sight of him, perfectly swathed and accoutred in one of his finicky little outfits. 

Harold invited him to sit at the kitchen table, placed a mug of coffee in front of him. John took in the look of the place, a perfectly convincing single man's home, one that seemed liked it had been inhabited for years. Finch was obviously working up to whatever he had to say. John took one sip of coffee, put down the cup and raised his eyebrows, expectant. 

'Mr R-' Harold caught himself, remembering what John had said about the name the previous day. It was disconcerting, seeing him uncertain and floundering. John waved a hand. 

'Why change it now. Spit it out, Harold.'

'I'm afraid I've made a terrible mistake.'

'A mistake.' He was trying to enjoy watching Harold squirm. It wasn't really working. 

'I wish I could undo the past two months, my overreaction to...certain things,' Harold swallowed, deeply uncomfortable. John's mind raced. 

'It's because I killed that guy.'

Harold looked taken off guard. 'Eriksson?'

'We weren't exactly formally introduced.' John had been knocked on the head, woken up bound to a chair in pitch darkness, locked in some tiny closet where he couldn't even get a run up at the door. He was still alive, which meant they wanted money or information, so when he heard someone coming to unlock the door he got ready and charged. The man had gone over a set of railings at the edge of a walkway outside the door, broken his neck on a concrete floor, and John had gotten free and not really thought much more about it until the following day, when Harold left him that letter. 

'You told me his death was accidental, I believed you. Even Carter believed you. I was only relieved you hadn't come to more harm.'

'So you fired me.'

'I didn't intend it as a reflection on your work. I tried to express that...'

'In the letter where you told me not to contact you?' John was getting worked up in spite of himself. 

'That letter was, it should never have been written.'

'Convenient to realise that now. Who have you been working with, Harold? Who did you get to be my replacement?'

Harold was starting to look cowed again at the tone of John's voice. 

'You wouldn't have gotten rid of me without someone else to do your dirty work. What happened, Harold? They not like wearing the clothes you picked out for them? Got sick of being drawn in and then shoved back out again? Did they not follow you around like a puppy, Harold? Did you feel they were insufficiently impressed by your wealth and brilliance?'

Harold's mouth was open but he was too shocked to speak for a moment. He reddened, and his pride found words for him. 

'Believe it or not, Mr Reese, I didn't hire you to gratify my ego. And with whom I have been working is neither here nor there. Suffice to say, my arrangements have not proved adequate; I have been forced to admit that letting you go has significantly impeded my ability to intercede. I would not have accepted the necessity of troubling you again, had not someone nearly died. Of course I now realise this is of secondary importance to your hurt feelings. I should have anticipated that.' 

John felt like he was going to explode. 

'You think this is going to make me want to take orders from you again? You used me, then you threw me away, no explanation, no warning. Just replaced me like you'd buy a new car. I risked my life for you. I would have done anything you asked. Anything. You didn't even miss me. You made me think we were friends, that you cared about me, and then you left me alone.' He knew his face must be almost as stunned as Harold's. He'd kept a lid on it too long, and now it was out. He had to get out of there, away from that look of horror and pity. He threw his trackable phone onto the table, stormed out and didn't stop till he reached the corner, retching and bringing up his lunch of dry toast and water. 

When he was finished he walked and walked until his head cleared, then found a diner. Not Harold's diner, nothing so nice, but he got a coffee and a donut and it felt like he was going to keep them down. 

He felt submerged, as if the sound and movement in the room were incapable of breaching the element surrounding him. Staring through the window pane he saw figures pass that might as well have been on another planet. Nothing was reachable, palpable, and he was just the ghost of a man who'd died years ago. Not even a good man; that had been taken away from him again. 

He couldn't exist like this. An aimless life didn't give him any purchase; he needed resistance, something to push against. Otherwise he was like a pocket with a hole in the bottom, everything just ran through. He could eat and sleep but there was nothing to live on, nothing to stop him fading into the outline of a vanished person.

John found himself thinking of Logan Pierce. He'd made it quite spectacularly obvious what he wanted from John, and life certainly wasn't boring around him. Of course he was crass, and deeply irritating, and John wasn't even sure he liked him, but that was a better review than he'd give his own company right now. 

There was another temptation that was far more insidious than Pierce's flashy vulgarity. A soft voice, deceptively soft, and brown eyes with warmth and intelligence in them. Elias had taken his hand, and spared his life. There was nothing uncertain there; the man had a presence, control and purpose that wouldn't be swayed or diverted. Cruelty wasn't his ambition, John had felt that, even if it was one of his tactics. Elias was power, and his power rested on trust in his people. John could let himself be taken in, be subsumed, become needed and prized and relied on. Elias would take even more of him than Finch had ever demanded; that was the appeal, if he was honest with himself. Being kept on a tighter leash, and knowing the hand holding it wouldn't let it slip. And one day, his path would inevitably cross Harold's, and he would see the look in his eyes when he realised how completely John belonged to his new boss. The thought was both horrifying and seductive. But if Elias ever sent him after Finch, wanted him out of the way for good, made John choose? The fantasy deflated in the face of an undeniable truth. He could belong to Elias, sure, but he could never erase his loyalty to Harold, even if he wasn't wanted. That choice would always be made. 

No, better to dig in somewhere new, make sure he couldn't be found, and resume the slow tedium of drinking himself to death. Forget about the brief interlude with the man who pretended to be Harold Finch, literally wipe him out of his brain cells. Whatever it took to get rid of the image of him standing there being sorry for John. A rush of self-pity finally overcame his anger and he started to replay what Harold had said to him. 

Harold had said someone nearly died. Did he mean himself? John felt jittery, muddled. He was so weary, but he'd never been further from resting. Had someone gotten near Finch? Was he still in danger? John left a bill on the table and stalked out, retracing his steps and making a beeline back to Harold's place, trying not to think of the number of people who might have started making plans to kidnap, torture or murder Finch while he'd been in his involuntary exile.


	4. Chapter 4

He pushed the button, presented himself in front of the camera; the door took longer to buzz open this time, long enough for his stomach to churn. When he stepped out at the top floor Harold was already standing in the doorway, wearing a dove-grey dressing gown and blue pyjamas. Honest-to-god, buttoned pyjamas. He really knows how to commit to a role, John thought, trying not to find the sight adorable. It didn't help that a bit of Harold's hair was stuck out sideways, his pale feet bare and his eyes a little red. 

'John.' It seemed he was really surprised, no speeches prepared. He shuffled aside and held the door. 'Please come in.'

John trudged in feeling like he was walking into a principal's office, or a doctor's. He knew he wasn't going to like whatever he heard, but he was going to have to hear it this time. 

'I need you to tell me the truth, Harold. Not just avoid lying. But first I need a drink.'

Harold looked a little dismayed. 

'I'm not getting drunk, I just haven't had any today. Cold turkey isn't a good idea.'

Harold's eyebrows shot up. He knew withdrawal had to be hitting bad for John to mention it. 'Oh. Of course.' He obliged, taking a bottle of something expensive out of a cupboard, and John poured some into the proffered glass. It helped, but he still felt like he'd been strung up on his toes all day. 

'I think I need to lie down.'

Harold paused, then ushered him past the unlit living room into a bedroom. Harold's bedroom, John realised, from the lamp switched on next to the bedside with half-untucked sheets. John stepped over a pair of slippers near the door. Harold must have rushed straight to the apartment door from his bed. John lumbered to the still-made side of the bed and folded like a puppet with its strings slackened. He closed his eyes.

'Perhaps you should just rest a while.' Harold made it a quiet suggestion. John couldn't help but miss the bossiness. 

'Get your feet warm.' John gestured to the other side of the bed. 'Difficult to get mad at you while I'm worrying about you catching a chill.' It was possibly the world's worst attempt at sounding gruff. It was irrational in Harold's own apartment, but he didn't want to let him out of his sight. 

He felt the moment of hesitation before Harold said 'I think I'll get some water first. Then you can get mad.'

He brought John a glass too, hung up his robe and sat carefully against the headboard, drawing the covers to his waist. 

'Harold.' Having Finch so close was a strange mix of settling and upsetting. 

'Are you going to be alright?'

'Yeah. I will. I'm really tired.'

'I'm sorry. Thank you for coming back.'

'It's not apologies I want.' Now who wasn't telling the truth? But he needed other things more than that. 

'You have mine anyway. And you're right, I owe you more than evasions.'

'I need to know, are you in danger?'

Harold seemed puzzled, which was some relief. 'No more than usual, as far as I know.'

'You said you needed me back because someone almost died.'

He could practically hear the whirring as Harold processed this. 'You were afraid I meant myself.' Harold's voice was so, so gentle. 

John didn't answer. Something in him started to unwind, just a little, but uncontrollably. 

'And so you came back to make sure I was alright.' Harold exhaled. 'John.' 

Damn it, he was so weak for Harold sounding like this: moved, tremulous. For the way Finch knew him, even in spite of himself. 'Can't have anything happen to you before I've yelled at you some more.'

'It's very good to see you. Even with the yelling.'

'Did you know I was drinking, when you decided to plant yourself in my way?'

'No, no surveillance beyond what I needed to let you approach me, if you wanted to. But I knew I'd hurt you. That needed redress, whether or not you decide to come back.'

'Harold, please. I don't understand any of this.'

'I know. My conduct was inexcusable. It's all been brewing for so long, and it finally got to be too much. I was alarmed, that night, when I realised the comms were dead, and I couldn't raise you for hours, with no idea of your location.'

'No signal in that old factory, I was too far down.'

'I know.'

'Plus I was knocked out for quite a while. But I've been through much worse.'

'I'm well aware, though that's not much comfort. I've known for a long time that you would go through a lot to protect me, and that someone might use you to try to get at me, perhaps to gain access to the Machine. The thought of you suffering for my past errors...I don't think I could refuse any demands if someone had you, John.'

'Hey, that guy was just some lowlife from the kidnapping ring we broke, he didn't have any big master plan. And I got away.' He wanted to deflect Harold's fears, even as the confession of protectiveness made his heart thump. 

'But I had time to run through every nightmare scenario, yet again. I wasn't in a state where I felt I could have rendered competent assistance even if there had been a lead. And there wasn't, but I was so frightened I'd missed something, kept tormenting myself with the thought that you could be hurt, could die and it would be my fault. That it's such a waste, for you to risk your safety when you deserve...you could be leading a much better life. A life without all this darkness.'

John gave a short laugh, but there wasn't much mirth in it. 'You think I'm going to become a yoga instructor or a landscape gardener or something? Run off to train horses or breed racing pigeons? Would you ever just walk away from the numbers, Finch?'

'No. I can't. But it's truly my responsibility. And I decided to try to fulfil it without taking up anyone's whole life, the way I've selfishly demanded of you.'

'And how would you do that?'

'I've been taking more of an active role myself in working the numbers,' Harold said, tentatively. John groaned; angry or not, he hated the thought of it, had been hating the thought of it, every day. 'And I hired assistance as needed. Without giving a full explanation of the reasons for my involvement, obviously.'

'Assistance?' His voice was tight. 

'I do have some resources from my earlier days of trying to do this.' He could practically feel John bristling. 

'My predecessor?'

'No. The man you've heard me mention before is dead.' Harold's voice shook a little before he paused, then continued. 'I only mean I found investigators, security, former military personnel working for private hire. I have some experience with these sorts of short term arrangements. As you, er, no doubt remember. I hoped that I had learned enough from working with you, or rather, learned enough from you, that I could manage.'

'What happened?'

'There were successes, initially, though not without some close scrapes. The number who was nearly killed was a blackmailer, not a very pleasant person, but he was seriously injured; next time it could be a child, someone vulnerable. I realised I can't do this alone without putting others at risk.'

'About time. I really don't like the sound of 'close scrapes', Harold.'

'It was my own doing, of course, but it hasn't been an enjoyable experience.'

'And your new friends?' John was just about managing not to grind his teeth. 

'Hired from job to job, paid off handsomely but not enough to make them overly curious, I don't think any of them worried too much about the somewhat odd circumstances.'

'Not tempted to keep any of them around, then.' John's chest felt a little constricted. He sat up and drank some water. 

'No, I think not.'

John could breathe again. Funny. 

'I'm ashamed of the way I treated you. I thought by shutting you out, I could at least push you towards a fresh start, that you'd be better off with only yourself to take care of. That night when I feared the worst, I was overwhelmed by feeling so powerless; even after I'd heard from you I was still full of anxiety, that there would be a next time, that you would need me and I wouldn't be able to function. I almost couldn't believe you were safe. I desperately wanted, more than anything, never to be in that situation again. Even if the alternative meant never seeing you again.' Harold looked down at his hands, spread his fingers before folding them again. 'The hope that you might find it a relief to move on, have some kind of normal life, I meant it for the best, however it backfired. I should never have forced the issue. I wanted to believe I could keep you away from danger, I still wish I could, but these are your choices to make. I realise this isn't an excuse, but I hope it's some explanation.'

'And if I hadn't taken the bait? If I'd just hopped on a plane to Hawaii instead of confronting you?'

'You still could. I wouldn't blame you. I pushed you away, and I'm still troubled by subjecting you to incessant risks. But it's going to be up to you to choose in your own best interests.'

John remembered waking in the dark, immobilised, head aching, saying Finch's name. He'd been shaken too, at first, unable to verify Harold's safety with his earpiece non-functional down there under steel and concrete, knowing Harold would blame himself if John turned up dead. But he'd never doubted that Harold would do anything he could to find him. He'd never considered being anywhere else, doing anything other than what he was doing. He'd be ok and get back to Finch. Even if he didn't, it'd be worth it as long as Finch was safe. But he was determined to get the slimeball who'd put him in there and get home, and the thought kept him going. That Harold would be happy when he walked in the door the next day, that Harold would be there waiting, would make an endearing fuss about the lump on John's head while John pretended to be annoyed. 

Then as soon as he'd gotten free he'd had the urge to rush straight to Finch, listen to him fret or scold to the top of his bent. He'd wanted to find him and pick him up and squeeze him till he squeaked, but instead he'd maintained his façade, hidden how he felt, and meanwhile Harold, scared and alone, had talked himself into another one of his great moral renunciations. It was a real kick in the pants. John's head hurt; he rubbed his fingers across his forehead. He knew there was something Finch wasn't saying. 

'You have to let me carry my share of this, Harold. I need you to try and trust me.'

'I do, John. I trust you more than anyone. I'm sorry I've given you cause to doubt it.'

'Then no more making everything your fault. I said yes to all this in the first place, you have to let me be in all of it with you. The responsibility as well. You're going to have to have a little faith in us.'

'Us?' Harold was sounding cautious again, instead of effusive. 

'You and me, Harold. I know you'll do all you can to look out for me, and that's a lot. It's more than good enough for me; I trust you over someone who'd never worry about me. And I will always fight to come back to you. We've done ok, we've helped people and we've relied on each other before, even when we've been frightened for each other. Is it so bad if I care about you, or you care about me? Do we need to lead separate lives about it?'

'I'm afraid you don't realise what I mean when I say I care about you.' Harold sounded tense. 

'Says who?' John felt like he was on a waterbed, all of a sudden. Swimmy and unstable. 

'Says the man who's been growing ever more in love with you for the past two years. Hence my disastrous inability to keep my perspective.' Harold exhaled. 'I'm sorry. I'm telling you this in the interests of full disclosure, not because I have ever expected any reciprocation. I realise that this is another reason for you not to resume our working relationship. I can only hope for your forgiveness for the way I lost control of my emotions.' Harold looked like he was waiting for the axe to drop; resigned and drained. 

John stared at the ceiling. It was a very blank ceiling. 

'John?' Harold's voice was reedy, nervous. 

'If you love someone, set them free,' John said. 'Not sure that means 'brutally cut them loose.' I missed you. So much it hurt, all the time. Even when I was angry. I thought you just wanted rid of me. That I wasn't good enough.'

Harold was quiet a moment. 'I told myself the only one I was really hurting was myself.'

'Don't take this the wrong way, but I feel really fucking terrible.' He reached out and Harold took his hand, his grip warm and reassuring. 

'Well I didn't want to say; you aren't looking very well.'

'Yeah, well, thanks a bunch. I love you too.' He laughed, squeezing Harold's hand, then lifting it up to kiss it. 

'Glad you're finding this amusing.' Harold didn't sound very affronted at all. 

'I wanted to come straight to you that night, see for myself you were ok. To be with you.'

'You would have had a spectacular view of me unravelling. I'm sure I would have virtually collapsed into your arms.' Harold was eyeing him anxiously. 

'Yeah. Me too. I think that's why I made myself stay away. I was afraid of how obvious it'd be that I just wanted to grab you and not put you down. Would have saved us some trouble I guess.' 

'John, I know you told me that the job helped you, that you were grateful,' Harold sounded pained. 'I would never want to presume on that gratitude.'

'Yes, I'm grateful that you chose to ask me to help you, that you gave me that chance. And I'm grateful when you show that you give a damn what happens to me. That's different. Maybe I would have just walked away from the same offer coming from someone different, but you're not the job. Losing you was losing everything. Having someone...it's not just the job. Making me happy.' John took a deep breath. 'I thought you could see that.'

Harold had a spot of high colour on each cheek, and he blinked rapidly, his eyes damp. John shifted closer. Harold lifted his arm and John leant gingerly against him, then took Harold's hand again and gave its knuckles some more little kisses for good measure. Harold might still operate by some impenetrable Harold-logic, but John could see now he wasn't the only one who'd been suffering. 

Harold breathed in deeply. 'I was firmly convinced it wasn't possible. Today is not a good day for my estimation of my insight and perspicacity.' 

'Has to happen to everyone sometime. Even you.' John was smiling ruefully; even his face kind of hurt. But it felt like they were themselves again, finally. 'Do you think you could maybe, I don't know, drop a hint to the Machine that it could help resolve these kinds of situations?' 

'Am I going to have to buy you a bow and arrow, so you can go play matchmaker? A little,' Harold fluttered his hand in the air over his own pelvis, 'tasteful drapery?'

'I'll make room in my closet.' John snorted. 'Guess I'm moving back to my old place now.'

'Whatever you want.'

'You think I should stay in the new place?'

'No, by all means haul your weaponry back to the loft,' said Harold. Of course he knew what I'd taken, thought John. 'Oh, and your colourful new wardrobe.' One hand plucked at the collar of John's dark green polo shirt. (Wait. What's wrong with dark green? John had no idea.)

Harold continued, ignoring his expression. 'Though if you want to, John, I'd like you to spend some of your time here, or elsewhere, with me.'

'You don't let up, do you. You make me miserable for weeks, then you practically give me whiplash.' 

'I never said I'd be easy to live with.' Harold lay back, relieved. 

'Just please tell me there's a spare toothbrush around somewhere.'

'In the cabinet under the sink, probably. If there isn't, you can use mine.'

'Private person my ass,' muttered John as he walked to the bathroom. He heard Harold laugh quietly behind him. 

He came back and twitched at the bedspread. 

'Can I get under here?'

'If you like.' Harold looked a little nervous but happy, put his glasses on the side table and nestled down into the covers. 

John pulled off his jeans and the apparently offending shirt, crept up to Harold's side again, curled against him and clung on, eyes closed. He didn't even want to move, with an arm holding him tight and warmth seeping into him. Eventually his hand wandered over Harold's belly, picking buttons open and making its way up, taking its time stroking soft skin and furry chest, massaging Harold's shoulders and brushing fingertips over his collarbone. He could hear the shifts in Harold's breathing, his heartbeat. When he caught a stifled little moan, John pulled himself up and nuzzled into the curve of his neck, smelling Harold's skin and moving down, burying his face in the soft fuzz, dragging his lips against a nipple, dipping his tongue around his navel, working up to breathe in at his neck again. 

'Satisfied?'

'Mm?'

'That I don't smell of any other big, strong operatives?' Harold was smirking, and it drove a spike of lust through John's heart. There was a side of Finch that rarely came to light, confident and provocative: John wanted it all over him. 

'Bastard.' John kissed him quickly on the lips. 'I'm not exactly strong at the moment.'

'You'll do.' He tugged John's shoulder, impatient. 

John kissed him hard, helplessly noisy when their tongues met. He straddled Harold and kissed him again, pressing closer, and Harold wrapped his arms over him. John nibbled at Harold's neck, liking how it made his hips push up, ground against him until Harold was gasping and clutching at him. He shoved down boxers and pyjama pants, sliding their cocks against each other's bodies, growling in bliss and desire when Harold grabbed his ass and pulled him down harder. Harold whimpered and John bit him and pinched his nipple and Harold went rigid and came, panting while John held him, kissed him. 

'Oh.' Harold's cheeks and lips were flushed red, and his eyes closed. 'Sorry.'

'Don't be. You did wait two years.' Right then John was just a floating, overstuffed cloud of adoration and smugness. 

'Longer.'

'Hm?'

'The first time I saw you was some time before we really met. You, ah, made an impression.' Harold smiled dazedly. 

'Mm. You liked what you saw?'

'Always.'

John grinned against Harold's neck, pushing his dick through the wet mess on Harold's stomach. Harold's eyebrows crinkled together a little, probably in distaste at being all sticky, but he settled into caressing John's head and neck, stroking his back while he moved. John took it easy, enjoying the closeness and the gentle petting and the slow waves of sensation, the taste of Harold's skin on his tongue. Harold motioned for him to move up a little. John shifted his knees and Harold got both hands on him, stroking his cock, touching his balls. The feeling of Harold handling him, eager and loving, was magic. When John looked down at the covetous, rapt expression on his face it was overwhelming. His limbs shook and his head jerked up and he came in a flood of amazed pleasure. For a few long moments he curled back down over Harold, brushing his lips against his cheek, listening to murmured praise and endearments, sweet and warm and addictively good. When he finally managed to let go he relished the sight of Harold filthy and flushed and contented, wanted to keep that image with him. He leaned down to kiss him, and Harold smiled at him, then looked at himself and grimaced. John took the hint and clambered out while Harold held the sheets out of harm's way. After cleaning them up John got another drink, rinsed the taste out of his mouth, and insinuated himself over Harold's relaxed body for more attention. Harold's fingertips on the back of his neck made him shiver and pulse even as he started feeling like he could sleep. 

'Alright?'

'Mmm.' John stretched luxuriantly. 

'Glad you're feeling better.'

'You?'

'I'm feeling extremely compromised.' John could hear him smile. 

'Yeah? Wait till morning. I'm gonna compromise the hell out of you.' 

'Hm, you'd better get some sleep, then.' Harold sounded sleepy too. 'I need to ask you something. Should you be seeing a doctor for detoxification meds?'

'No.' John sighed. 'Yes. Probably.'

'Glad we're clear on that.'

'Mmf.' John kissed his shoulder. 

'Alright. I'll make an appointment.' 

John shifted himself down to the mattress, wriggled up to Harold's hip, slid one leg over his and an arm over his middle, then wedged his head firmly against Harold's shoulder. Harold puffed out a laugh. 'Close enough?'

John's voice was muffled and muzzy with sleep. 'You're not going anywhere, Finch.'

Harold kissed him on the crown of his head. 'No, I'm not.'


End file.
